


Catharsis; Metamorphosis

by breathtaken, sevenswells



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: BDSM, Character Study, Coming of Age, Includes Fanart, Masturbation, Multi, One-Sided Attraction, Sexual Fantasy, Yuri is 17
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-16 02:12:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10561674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells/pseuds/sevenswells
Summary: Yuri Plisetsky at seventeen is amess: all he did the whole of last season was lose, lose, lose, his dick has gone rogue, and he hates every fucking second of it.So he skates it out.Fanfic bybreathtaken, featuring art bysevenswells.





	

**Author's Note:**

> All I know about figure skating, I learned from Google. If I’ve made any glaring errors then I’d greatly appreciate you letting me know.
> 
> A note on tags: Yuri’s fantasies are varied and generally BDSM-themed, please be aware that I have not tagged mentions of individual kinks.
> 
> Updated May 2017 to add art by [sevenswells](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenswells). Thank you! <3

Yuri Plisetsky at seventeen is a _mess_.

It’s like puberty decides to make up for its late arriving all at once: in the last six months he’s gained four kilograms, six and a half centimetres and one full shoe size, and his skin’s been breaking out with a ferocity that not even Viktor’s militant skincare routine can suppress. He’s two-footing jumps he’s been landing flawlessly since he was twelve years old, and Yakov put him in a harness for his quad Salchow, like a child.

He responded by getting his left ear pierced in three places and a side-shave in his shoulder-length hair, and he’s taken to braiding the edge of it like what’s-her-face in _The Hunger Games,_ occasionally imagining getting the tattoo for good measure. On his particularly bad days he wears eyeliner.

It doesn’t help.

His problems are twofold:

Firstly, all he did the whole of last season was lose, lose, lose. Bronze at Skate America and _last_ at the NHK, smack bang in the middle of his first growth spurt where he fell twice, had to swallow his pride and pull all the quads from his programmes except the toe loop; needless to say, he didn’t make it to the GPF. Second to Viktor at Europeans, add another two centimetres in height and fifth again at Worlds, beaten by Katsuki, JJ, Viktor and Otabek, in that order, because dropping out would have been even worse than going there and sucking, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t hate every single minute of it.

Otabek, at least, he doesn’t mind beating him. As painful as it is, right now Beka’s just better. But losing to JJ makes him crazy every time because JJ is a terrible and infuriating human being, and as for Viktor and Katsudon – well, they’re Yuri’s problem number two.

Because his dick has gone rogue.

It started at Worlds, which is ridiculous in itself because he _never_ gets aroused during competition. Only apparently he does now, because he woke up on the morning of the free programme from a dream of Yuuri and Viktor spitroasting him, his cock rock-hard and demanding attention, and couldn’t get the image out of his head as he hurriedly jacked himself off, or look either of them in the eyes afterwards.

And during the weeks since other, worse images have joined it, which is probably his own stupid fault for watching porn to try and get the two of them out of his head, and just ending up giving himself ideas instead: him tied to the bed, Viktor fucking him with his fingers while Yuuri fucks Viktor. Yuuri putting him over his knee and _spanking_ him, while he sucks Viktor’s cock. Something with a collar and a tail and being touched that he doesn’t even want to put into words inside his mind, because it makes him feel slightly nauseous and a whole lot terrified and unavoidably turned-on.

It’s humiliating. It’s absurd, because otherwise he feels no differently about either of them; it’s just some bizarre sexual compulsion that has him beating off sometimes twice a day to thoughts he’d rather die than admit, always featuring the two of them. And that plus the fact that he _can’t fucking skate_ equals a deep and fierce self-loathing that he commits to as single-mindedly as he does everything else.

Talking to Beka is really the only bright spot in his life at the moment, the only person who doesn’t fill him with a seething, myopic rage just for existing, though between the sheer amount of things Yuri’s not saying and his desperate gratitude for Beka being his friend and being _there_ , even that’s harder than it ever was. They watch terrible action movies on Netflix Party and sit on Skype for hours on end, sometimes barely speaking at all. Beka never pushes him to talk, for which Yuri’s eternally thankful, because he doesn’t know what he’d do if he did.

Katsuki _has_ – and his last attempt resulted in Yuri being so excessively rude in response that he actually went round to Viktor’s to apologise afterwards, though he just felt even worse when Katsuki looked at him sympathetically and Yuri wanted so badly to either cry or punch him – or both – that he just walked off without a word, scared for a moment that he’d actually lose control, which right now feels like all he has left.

Yakov has him on a pretty much doubled balance and flexibility regime with an hour of yoga a day, less time on the ice and even more at the barre, and Yuri pours himself into it with everything he has, determined to drag himself out of this pit with the sheer force of his own determination. He stays as late as he’s allowed to, drilling the basics over and over and over until his traitorous body decides to get its shit together, determined to exhaust himself so thoroughly that he doesn’t even think about Viktor and Yuuri together in the home they share, undressing each other with nimble fingers, touching.

Yuri’s hardly introspective, but even he realises that everything he’s bottling up has to come out some time, in some way, and all he knows how to do is skate.

It first comes to him on the massage table of all places, as his mind’s casting about desperately for anything other than what Katya’s doing to his muscles and how it feels, so sweet and deep and painful, and how hard it’s making him:

An upright spin, arms extended above his head but crossed at the wrists with hands loose, like they’re tied together.

Then a sit spin with arm extended, into a layback – with arms in line, as Yulia Lipnitskaya as he can get it1.  He’s always trained on _maintaining_ position, but now he wonders how quickly he could move between spins while still keeping form, until they flow together like one movement, only the crossed-wrists upright spin ever held. Like a person pulled in all different directions, returning again and again to… _that._

The idea of it makes him feel naked – but this is just a mental exercise, nothing more. If he wants to surpass Viktor in every way then that will need to include producing his own programs, and though he’s always contributed to Yakov and Lilia’s choreography he’s never taken the lead, never tried to simply skate what he feels inside.

He likes the idea of making everything deliberately imperfect, it would certainly fit his failure theme. An Ina Bauer-warrior pose mashup, undulating through the torso like a belly dancer, one hand reaching forwards and the other behind, as if to grasp at something unseen; a step sequence that works _against_ his own momentum rather than with it, even if it looks terrible. Jumps with his arms raised, even if they’re only double toe loops. This isn’t for competition, after all; it’s for _him,_ and suddenly he’s itching to put his skates back on and see what he can do.

But there’s no chance of private ice time tonight and no way he’s trying this in front of anyone else, so he settles for rushing home and scribbling down everything he has so far in a burst of notation – and then hesitating.

What is he trying to say?

Every programme needs a progression. It can’t just be him skating what he’s feeling with no structure – though perhaps that’s the key, his self expression. That he’s chosen to express himself, with no hope of any further resolution, might just be enough.

“Catharsis,” he says aloud. It works in both languages, and he’s always thought it sounds kind of ugly, which is fitting really.

 _Catharsis_ , he thinks, and the ideas start to flow. Conflict, to crisis, to acceptance, in three parts: struggle, and desire, building and breaking into longer, slower elements – but not classic ones, he needs to create something unique.

If he wants to stand a chance of beating JJ with his unmatched technical abilities, and Katsuki who has all the force of Viktor’s artistry behind his own formidable talents, Yuri doesn’t just need a programme. He needs a metamorphosis.

But when he finally gets to try some things out two days later, it quickly becomes apparent how fiendishly difficult parts of it will actually be – and when he stumbles out of the layback for the third time in fifteen minutes he actually shouts, his frustration echoing round the rink.

Whatever. He’s not a quitter, and however stupid this may be it’s all he has right now, so he’s going to fucking do it if it kills him.

It takes him two weeks of snatched moments, early mornings and late nights to put together a full routine that he thinks is vaguely coherent and that he can physically skate. It’s got one triple loop-double toe loop combination and no quads at all, and he estimates at least half of it would be utterly useless in competition but he’s never cared less, even though he’s imagined the costume and even anonymously commissioned a sketch from one of his fan artists: a plain matte black unitard, the black becoming spirals at his calves and forearms and collarbones, looping around his ankles and wrists like rope, like a collar at his neck. It’s paired with hair in a low bun and blood red lipstick, smudged around the mouth.

The artist has drawn him wearing skates but stepping like he’s at the barre, body an extended fourth position and his expression a mixture of sorrow and defiance that’s hard to look at.

 

 

It’s almost a pity he’ll never use it. But this is for him alone; and while working through it over and over he’s managed to purge a little of his own self-loathing too, and work some way towards acceptance. He’s not who he was, his centre of gravity’s permanently altered and he’s not sure he’ll ever get that half-Bielmann spin back, but he’s seeing for the first time that he’s gained something too.

And as for his fantasies, well – it’s not like he can cut them out, and he’s growing tired of revulsion, trying instead to fixate less upon their object and starting to Google things like limits and safewords. At the end of the final combination spin he starts to hold the upright position longer and longer until his momentum all but runs out, delaying the moment he drops his arms, falls to his knees and bows his head, his body an offering.

When he gets up, ignoring the inevitable bruises forming, and turns to skate back to the gate, he sees Viktor standing there, watching.

The shock makes him stumble and nearly fall over his own skates.

“The fuck are you doing here?”

“It’s a quarter to nine. Yuuri’s getting changed, I thought I’d come see how you were doing.” Viktor’s eyes narrow, a small smile playing around his lips, and Yuri belatedly recognises the emotion welling up inside him as _fear_. “You can’t use most of that in competition. Is it an exhibition piece?”

“How much did you see?” Yuri demands, calling on anger to cover his rapidly-mounting panic.

“I came in at the Ina Bauer.” Which might as well be the beginning. Fuck fuck _fuck._ “Do it again. With the music this time.”

Yuri blinks. “You’re not my fucking coach. Also, there is no music.”

Viktor smiles even wider. He actually looks genuinely _pleased_ , which makes absolutely fuck all sense. “Unorthodox. I like it. Well, I can put you in touch with my friend Priya if you want, she did my 2011 free programme music. I think this would be absolutely her style.”

Yuri rolls his eyes, more than anything relieved to be given something to be annoyed about. “I don’t know all your programmes by heart, Viktor, I’m not your fucking husband.”

Viktor ignores him. “And you need to look at the step sequence in the middle again, it’s horrifically undisciplined. I like that first combination spin though. It reminds me of an octopus.”

“Get bent,” Yuri replies, putting his skate guards on and stomping off to the changing rooms without looking back.

He passes Katsudon in the hall, and the changing room itself is blessedly empty. He sits down on the bench to unlace his skates, and it’s only when his fingers fumble the laces that he realises they’re shaking.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, and puts his head in his hands, fingertips brushing the stubble at his skull.

Whatever. It’s fine, because it has to be, and it’s not like Viktor can read his mind. Knowing him, he probably doesn’t get it at all.

Perhaps this was inevitable. The cracking of the cocoon, as it were.

He just wasn’t ready.

He makes himself get up, get changed, keep going. He washes his face, slaps some concealer on top of the breakout on his chin, then hits the gym. After lunch he’s back on the ice, and when Yakov gives him a break he dicks about a bit with that bitch of a step sequence, that takes all the power he’s saving on jumps and then some, ignoring the curious gazes around him. Then he goes home and instead of making dinner, strips down to his boxer briefs and sprawls out on the bed, and for the first time since all of this started, just lets his mind go where it will.

He’s always seen his own desires in flashes, images devoid of context, but now he tries to imagine a scene that could be played out, with a partner, or partners: Yuuri would be kind yet firm and unyielding, he decides, Yuri breaking against the force of his will like a wave on the rocks. He’d be collared, and gagged – no – _yes_ , the surge of heat at that giving him away – and where is Viktor? There, he’s wearing a three-piece suit, because he’s exactly that kind of asshole, looming over Yuri from above; and he’s _amused_ , but Yuri can’t hit back with his wrists bound in the small of his back and Yuuri’s hand slapping his thighs wider, wider, can’t talk back with his mouth – it’s a ring gag, and Viktor unbuttons his fly and drags Yuri forward by his braid and onto his cock, leaving him teetering right at the edge of his balance, tongue working double-time, unable to suck.

And Yuuri puts his fingers –

_Fuck._

He’s actually going to try it.

Yuri yanks his underwear off and gets up, letting it fall to the floor, and goes through to the kitchen, ever-thankful that he moved out of Lilia’s as soon as he was allowed. He snags the olive oil from the counter and then a towel from the bathroom, because this is probably going to get messy.

He’ll do it like he imagines, then: on his knees. Perhaps it’s not Yuuri’s fingers at all but his own, Yuuri just sitting patiently beside him, _watching_ – and that’s both better and worse, Yuri’s face is heating and his heart beating like a trapped bird in his chest, as he drizzles oil over the fingers of his left hand and grips his cock with his right as he reaches around.

It’s – really weird, he decides, strange and just _wrong_ at first and he doesn’t get how anyone could like this at all; but he perseveres, imagining Yuuri’s hand wrapped around his throat and his voice in his ear, saying in his particular Asian-American English, “Come on now, Yuri. Take it for me, I’ll _make_ you like it” – and he adds a second finger and that’s _good_ for the first time, the slight stretch of it coupled with the movement stoking something inside him. It’s intense; Viktor would be good at this, he decides, with those long fingers, and the idea of ceding control, of letting someone else touch him like this now he knows how it feels –

Then he finds his prostate, and gasps aloud as a dizzying wave of arousal shoots through him.

He’s sure Yuuri would be the one in charge. Perhaps because he saw Viktor kissing Yuuri’s skate at Rostelecom that first year, or the way he dotes on him still, grandiose and a little silly. Perhaps it’s because of that time Yuri walked in on them kissing – _really_ kissing, and the detail that’s stuck with him is Yuuri’s hands, buried in Viktor’s hair. Perhaps it’s that Yuri would never willingly give up anything of himself to Viktor alone, but Yuuri…

Yuuri astride him with one knee between his shoulder blades and one hand fisted in his braid, pressing his face to the pillow as he struggles fruitlessly, the other hand jerking his own cock. Viktor – Yuri starts moving the hand on his cock, finding an unsteady rhythm – Viktor’s hand pressing on Yuri’s spine until his back is perfectly arched, tilting his head just so, so he can’t help drooling around the gag in his mouth, kissing his eyelids when he closes his eyes in shame. Yuuri pulling on the leash clipped to his collar just to make him feel it, telling him how pretty he is, how good –

Yuri comes harder than he ever has in his life.

It’s okay, he tells himself after, the shower spray hot on his upper back, breathing in the steamy air rising around him. It really is. Sure, it’s embarrassing because it’s _them_ , but they’ve been getting handsy in front of Yuri every day for pretty much the last year, so it’s probably their fault anyway. And the websites he’s read are very clear on none of this saying anything about him as a person.

It’s just something that’s happened, and he’ll skate it out.

 _Catharsis,_ he reminds himself.

He sleeps better that night than he has in weeks.

He keeps working, clocking hour after extra hour at the rink and hissing at Yakov when he suggests Yuri take a day off. Instead, he skates his programme as a leaf in the wind, blown every which way by forces beyond his control; and then starting with a tight, coiled power more reminiscent of the North American style that slowly gives way to pure prima ballerina, and decides that’s what it needs to be.

When he’s tried everything he can think of to try, he sends Viktor a message.

 

 **Yuri:** _come early tomorrow. Just you_

 **Asshole:** _OK, why? Is this about your gala programme?_

 

Yuri doesn’t bother replying, figuring Viktor will come anyway, out of curiosity; and he’s right, Viktor’s there before Yuri’s even finished warming up the next morning, gloved hands wrapped around a coffee cup. _He’s beautiful_ , Yuri thinks, which is an observation he’s made many times without thinking it had any relevance to him personally; in that context Viktor’s presence in his fantasies almost makes sense, because he _is_ beautiful, and there is simply no imagining Viktor these days without Yuuri, in the same way that there is no imagining Yuuri without Viktor.

Yuuri, though –

_Not now._

“Morning, Yuri!” Viktor waves at him, which like everything else he does is stupid and unnecessary because Yuri’s already skating over to him. “I hope you’re going to show me this gala programme of yours again!”

“It’s not a gala programme,” Yuri replies automatically, pointing over the barrier at his phone. “I want you to record it for me.”

“Oh? Why me? And why couldn’t Yuuri come too?”

 _Because he’s actually perceptive_ , Yuri thinks.

He sniffs and says, “It’s bad enough that you’ve seen it,” which fortunately Viktor seems to accept.

“It’s a good idea to watch yourself back, it always helps me. Did you get music?”

“No music. I’ll get in position, hold for five and then start.” Yuri skates away without waiting for a reply, waiting in the centre of the rink until Viktor holds up Yuri’s phone and gives him a thumbs up. Then he rolls his shoulders forwards and rests his hands on his knees, slumping through the spine, steeling himself to begin.

 _Viktor’s seen this already,_ he reminds himself, but it still doesn’t stop him feeling like an exposed nerve.

He rolls up and skates forward, faking the stumble that turns into a dropped crouch and then up into a tight circular step sequence – all just deliberate enough to be clearly intentional – and then again, mirroring his previous steps; change-leg spiral, split jump, Ina-Bauer-come-warrior, reaching forward and back, throwing his arms up to the sky and then jackknife, hands grasping his ankles and pulling them wide into a spread eagle – his face burning to think of Viktor behind him, watching this – and back again, uncoiling into a near-textbook upright spin, but with his wrists crossed like they’re bound, holding the position for one, two, three.

Then he drops into a sit spin and rises as soon as he hits it to change foot upright and again and again, arms reaching out in turn – careful to keep the movements powerful, even choppy so he doesn’t get accused of being an octopus again, into wrists-crossed upright and holding it until his momentum’s _just_ out – then a second step sequence even harder than the first, steps that stop him dead and reverse his momentum cut with folding in on himself like he’s crumpling, building just enough momentum for the double toe loop with his arms raised, landing to spread eagle into the triple Salchow-double toe loop and land –

And he stops fighting, lets himself flow and just _glides_ for a moment before moving into a layback spin with arms in reverse prayer 2, which will surely give him away if nothing else has already, holding it as long as he can. He imagines the music at this point would be slow, warm chords washing over him like waves, change leg spiral with teppo arms3 followed by a double toe loop with arms raised and then into the second combination spin, scratch to layback to upright with wrists crossed, which he holds and holds and holds – and then a couple of steps and into a hydroblade4, outside arm reaching up and dropping back behind him so that as his momentum gives out he falls back and takes his weight on his hands and one skate, back arched and mouth open, holds it one-two-three before collapsing to the ice.

There are a few seconds where all he can hear is his own gasping for breath before Viktor starts to applaud, because he’s nothing if not a predictable asshole.

“ _Bravo!_ ” Viktor calls out. “Very sexy. And interesting, I liked the layback. The second step sequence is too much though, you’re just killing yourself for nothing.” Yuri rolls his eyes when Viktor starts to count on his fingers. “Same with that split jump, it’s not adding anything. Turn the spiral into a sequence instead. And when you get some of your other jumps back it’ll kick the whole thing up a notch.”

“How many times, you’re not my coach.” Yuri holds his hand out for his phone, and glares at Viktor when he doesn’t immediately pass it over. “And the step sequence is staying. It’s part of the narrative.”

“Which is?”

Yuri suddenly registers how keenly Viktor’s looking at him, and wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“None of your business.” He snatches his phone out of Viktor’s hand. “Thanks for filming it.”

When he gets into the changing room he plonks himself down on the bench and before even taking off his skates, forwards the video to Beka.

 

 **Yuri:** _watch this?_

 **Yuri:** _~~and let me know what you think~~ _

 

He hits Send before he can change his mind, ignoring the unease in the pit of his stomach. It’s not right if Viktor’s the only person who sees this… he hesitates to even call it a programme, because that implies he’s intending to perform it at some point. Routine, perhaps. Or just catharsis.

Well. If he’s honest, really it’s that although he doesn’t want to _talk_ , knows that Beka knows all his skating problems already and doesn’t exactly want to tell him what else is going on in his head, Yuri does want to be _known_. He wants Beka to know what he’s feeling, even if he doesn’t need to know everything he’s thinking.

Yuri manages to successfully avoid Viktor for the rest of the day, even though it means hiding around a corner at one point. While Viktor’s dangerous when his curiosity is piqued, Yuri would put money on him having forgotten by the time the week is out, if he can avoid any further conversation.

Meanwhile, he… thinks he’s getting somewhere. He’s still only doing triples and there’s still the odd fuck up, but he’s been a figure skater long enough to tell a jump that’s merely satisfactory from one that’s _good_ , and the ones he lands correctly are _good_ more often than they were two weeks ago.

He tries a quad toe loop, and smiles to himself when he nails it.

He may not be out of the woods yet, but for the first time in far too long, there’s hope.

He calls Otabek the moment he’s home, and is openly grinning as he tells him. In response he gets grilled for thirty seconds about exactly what he’s landing and how often, complete with estimated percentages, and it’s only when he’s been thoroughly interrogated that Beka says, “Good. I’m glad.”

Yuri isn’t used to feeling guilty, but the realisation that this is the most they’ve spoken about anything meaningful since Worlds is enough to do it.

Beka is lying on the sofa in his bedroom, laptop resting on his stomach. The set of his mouth rarely changes, but even through the shitty connection Yuri can tell from the softness around his eyes that he’s happy.

“I couldn’t tell from the video if that was all you were jumping.”

“It’s not about the difficulty,” Yuri says. He had been steeling himself to ask, and yet having Beka bring it up first leaves him feeling wrong-footed. “What – what did you think?”

Beka hums thoughtfully; Yuri digs his nails into the flesh of his palms.

“That depends on your intentions,” he says finally. “It’s clearly not for competition.”

Yuri shakes his head. “I’m not going to use it. For anything. That’s why there’s no music.” He chuckles humourlessly, which is so unlike him he almost visibly cringes. “I don’t know if it’s even watchable.”

“Oh, it’s watchable. And not just because of the originality. I’ve never seen you skate with so much feeling.” Beka pauses, takes a sip of tea; Yuri is still holding his breath. “Is that why you make it so difficult for yourself?”

Yuri swallows. “Yeah. I.” _I’m difficult_ , he thinks, and makes himself stop fiddling with his braid.

“What does Yakov say?”

“He hasn’t seen it. Nobody has. Except Viktor, and that was only because he walked in on me.” Yuri pulls a face.

“And now me,” Beka points out, his expression giving nothing away; and Yuri feels something inside of him crack.

“Look. It’s shit, okay?” His voice comes out too loud, and he forces it down. “The entire season’s been shit, and I – I hate every fucking second of my life right now. And I know you know and it’s not news or anything, and I don’t know how to talk about stuff really anyway. I only know how to skate. So I tried to skate it.”

It’s an effort to meet Beka’s eyes, though Yuri doesn’t know what he’s so scared of. This is Beka, who’s constant as the sun and who chose Yuri first, though he never quite says what Yuri’s expecting.

This time it’s, “Yura. You can always tell me anyway, as much or as little as you want. And it doesn’t have to be news. It can make a difference just to say you’re feeling shitty, and to have someone else hear you.”

Yuri hesitates. He wants to – not shrug it off exactly, but to respond to Beka in kind. To be the kind of person who can say it’s cool or perhaps even thank you, and accept the gift of his friendship as easily as it’s given. But he’s been fighting himself for too long, and what actually happens is that he finds himself confessing, “I’m so tired, Beka.”

“I know. But you’re doing the work you need to. Just try and have a little patience with yourself.”

For a few moments, Yuri can’t speak. He doesn’t know what he would say to something like that, and suddenly there’s a lump in his throat.

In the end he says, “The worst bit’s that change leg spiral with the arms. I bet it looks shit.”

“It doesn’t look shit,” Beka says, and when he smiles Yuri has to look away.

“Do you have a name for it?” he asks, drawing Yuri back.

“ _Catharsis_.”

Beka nods. “I could see the struggle. You should be proud of it. It may not look effortless, but its beauty is its sincerity.”

“God, shut up, will you,” Yuri mumbles into the neck of his hoodie, making Beka laugh.

“And you asked what I thought. Are you going to choreograph your competition programmes this year?”

“I’d like to.”

“You should. And you have Viktor right there to learn from.”

Yuri scoffs, though Beka’s suggestion is a sensible one, and they both know it. “I bet he won’t fucking leave me alone about it now. He keeps asking about this. Calling it my _gala programme_.”

“Is it?”

Yuri remembers the first picture he saw of the reverse prayer position, the shock of scarlet rope against the model’s pale skin, half-braided blonde hair pulled to one side, baring one ear, the vulnerable curve of the neck.

He shudders.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

“Then you need to distract him.”

Yuri’s still thinking about it long into the night, watching the full moon through the half-open blinds instead of sleeping. Yuuri would know about shibari, his skilled hands turning Yuri into a work of art; and in this drowsy twilight world where he can have them, for once he isn’t struggling or uncertain but kneels pliant and still on the mattress, moonlight slatted across his skin, a canvas for Yuuri’s desires.

He tries to imagine telling Beka what he wants, or who he wants it with, and can’t. The world wouldn’t end; Beka would consider it as seriously as he does everything, and wouldn’t make Yuri feel any more shitty than he does already. But they’ve literally never talked about love or sex or _wanting_ sex or anything like that, and he has no clue what Beka’s frame of reference even is.

Yuuri would pity him and Viktor would probably think it was hilarious, so. At least he doesn’t have to wonder about _that_.

Beka told him to distract Viktor, but he has nothing to offer. He put everything he has into _Catharsis_ and he refuses to gut it for a competition programme, serve it up sanitised and stuffed with required elements; it’s either rip out his still-beating heart and hand it over, or he might as well just go with whatever Yakov and Lilia can put together.

Does it matter? He honestly doesn’t know if it matters. It does not, by definition, make a skater.

He idly imagines presenting a programme called _I Want You and Your Husband to Fuck Me_ _i_ _nto the Mattress._ He’s already got the costume design.

The idea is so ridiculous, it makes him smile.

The next day he lands all his quad toe loops, his quad Salchow seventy-five percent of the time, and a hundred percent of his triples.

On his afternoon break, he retreats into the changing room and watches the video. He has to hold the phone close to his face as Viktor’s gone for wide coverage, and the sound has picked up his annoying little _hmm_ noises, but Yuri has to admit it’s well-shot.

And Yuri himself is… well. Admittedly messy in a lot of places – which isn’t really a surprise, he’s performing moves he’s been doing for weeks, rather than years – and he can see exactly how hard he’s working throughout; but it’s _passionate_ , the sheer depth of feeling in his performance undeniable, and he’s embarrassed all over again that even Beka has seen this, let alone Viktor.

On screen, he’s just moving into the second spin sequence when the door opens.

It’s Katsudon.

Yuri slams the pause button, but he’s not quick enough.

Katsuki cocks his head – exactly like Makkachin, Yuri decides spitefully.

“Is that your new programme? Viktor told me he filmed it for you.”

“Of course he did,” Yuri mutters.

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised.

“Can I see it?”

Katsuki is standing with one hand still on the door handle, and his presence is putting Yuri thoroughly on edge. Partly because he’s the only person Yuri has to speak English to and he’s well aware of his disadvantages in that regard; partly because ever since the fantasies started, being as gratuitously rude to him as he is to everyone else has started to feel like playing with fire.

Instead of telling him to go eat a dick, Yuri just says, “No.”

Katsuki nods, unsurprised. “Viktor said you didn’t want him to see it either.” He pauses, as if he’s searching for the words. “You know we’d help you with anything you wanted, right?”

Yuri scowls. “I don’t need your help.”

“Like you helped me.” Yuuri smiles, one of Viktor’s smiles; it’s disconcerting. “Think of it this way: I don’t want to beat you because you wouldn’t ask for help. I want you to be the best you can be, and then I want to beat you anyway. Does that sound familiar?”

 _Too damn perceptive for his own good_ , Yuri thinks.

He chances saying, “The feeling’s mutual.” It’s worth it for Katsuki’s laugh.

The problem is, Yuri doesn’t even dislike him.

It would be so much easier if he could.

He looks at Yuuri looking at him, at his unfashionable glasses and who-gives-a-fuck haircut, and thinks to himself, _fuck it._

“Fine,” he says, and holds out his phone.

The next few minutes feel endless. Yuri can’t decide what’s worse, watching Katsuki watching the video, or watching the video knowing that Katsuki’s watching too, so he settles for staring at the floor listening to the sound of his skates on the ice and waiting for it to be over.

This might be the worst idea he’s ever had, he honestly can’t tell.

The sound cuts out, and for a moment Katsuki doesn’t say anything. When Yuri looks up he’s just pursing his lips at the black screen looking thoughtful, and Yuri can’t bear it.

“I just needed to – get it out.”

Katsuki smiles, and hands him back his phone.

“Yuri. You’re young –” he holds up his hand – “no, I know you hate being reminded of it, but hear me out – and I think you forget that we all know what it’s like to fail. Even Viktor had a few rocky early years in seniors, and he was a multiple junior champion too.” He squeezes Yuri’s shoulder, and Yuri tries to shake him off without looking like he’s doing it, which was probably always doomed to failure. “You’ll work through it and come back stronger, but until you do, it’s okay to lean on the people around you a little.”

“I guess,” is all Yuri can manage, fiddling with the frayed cuff of his hoodie, trying to pretend Yuuri’s words haven’t found their mark.

“You’re not planning to perform it?”

“No.”

“Good.” Yuri blinks. “I wouldn’t recommend it, actually. Not with that density of subtext.”

It takes Yuri a moment to understand what he means.

“Oh,” he says eloquently, though the only thought running through his mind is _fuck fuck fuck,_ on loop.

“Viktor told me it was sexy, but I don’t think he quite got it,” Katsuki muses, more to himself than to Yuri; Yuri wishes he could literally drop dead. “You can always talk to me if you need to, about anything. And that includes about sex.”

“I swear to God, Katsuki,” Yuri warns, and cringes when it comes out shaky.

“I’d rather embarrass you than have you get into situations you regret,” Katsuki points out reasonably, with none of the embarrassment Yuri would have expected from him, if he’d been asked to guess. “It makes you emotionally vulnerable, in ways you can’t predict, and that’s not something you can just push through. You need to be careful.”

 _He thinks I’m a child,_ Yuri realises – and he wants to accuse, hit back, but the words stick in his throat.

It’s not like he really thought Yuuri would – _what?_ – but it still hurts not to be talked to as an equal, and with that hurt comes anger.

He clamps his jaw shut; but Yuuri must be able to see it on his face, because he squeezes Yuri’s shoulder again, and Yuri hates himself just a little more for how much he wants to lean into his touch. “I’m not trying to be patronising. In my culture, we don’t talk about these things… and I’ve had to learn a lot about the importance of communication. Sometimes the hard way. I’ve always found it’s harder to say what you want than what you don’t.”

Yuuri’s hand is still on his shoulder; and Yuri finds himself confessing to his own clasped hands, “…I’m not ready yet.”

“It’s good you know that of yourself.” Yuuri gives his shoulder one last squeeze, then drops his hand, leaving Yuri cold. “Now get back out there and work on beating me. And don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Viktor.”

It’s an obvious setup, but Yuri takes it, giving Katsuki his best glare. “Never mind pork cutlet, I’ll make you into borscht if you do.”

Katsuki grins. “I’d expect nothing less.”

When Yuri gets back on the ice it’s with a lighter heart, and he nails every jump.

The Yuuri of his fantasies continues to magically know what he needs and makes him take it without him ever having to say a word, but Yuri figures that’s his compensation for not having the real thing.

He skates _Catharsis_ a few more times, looking for the problems with it like Viktor did, and making mental notes. It makes him tired, like his anger did, and while it’s always a relief to surrender, he knows that’s not the end of the story.

 

 **Yuri:** _Where do I start?_

 **Yuri:** _The programme I mean_

 **Katsudon:** _What do you want to say?_

 

When he looks at it like that, suddenly it’s easy.

 

 **Yuri:** _I’m back, bitches_

 **Yuri:** _I’ll call it metamorphosis_

 **Yuri:** _But that’s the real title_

 **Katsudon:** _There you go :)_

 

He’ll start in child’s pose, he decides, and take it from there.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 [Yulia Lipnitskaya's layback spin](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/lakersgirl712/media/Naked%20Ice%20Blog%202013-2014/julcor13_zps4b7e51a3.jpg.html)  
> 2 [Reverse prayer](https://cdn2.omidoo.com/sites/default/files/imagecache/full_width/images/bydate/jan_10_2012_-_910pm/shutterstock_91719827.jpg) (yoga), also a bondage position.  
> 3 [Teppo](http://www.restrainedelegance.com/preview/lexicon1/reh_20110708_1241230.jpg) (bondage), **NSFW**  
>  4 [Hydroblade](https://68.media.tumblr.com/35e1b17f076f2da44c4badc25609f840/tumblr_n0uel5PAie1sdkrtuo1_500.gif), Yuzuru Hanyu


End file.
